Poseidon had a lot of self-strength. He didn't break easy, but when he did it was like a damn exploding. Poseidon never felt guilt for anything except when his wife stepped out that door and he had to find her. His children had all up and left and disowned him, he was trying to break the few he had left in staying. Then there was Valencia who was still so little and adored him. She would not hate him like the rest, or maybe she did.
His hands dug into the pavement of the carport, scuffing his hands against the rough finish as water dripped down all of him. He felt like he was drowning. "What are you doing to me?" wallowing in where his hate stemmed after he'd built it up as a wall for so long was like swallowing poison.